


Lawrence Unmasked

by maleficentWatermelon



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 20:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18059600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maleficentWatermelon/pseuds/maleficentWatermelon
Summary: A short piece from Sammy's perspective in Chapter 5. Obviously includes Chapter 5 Spoilers and canon-typical violence.





	Lawrence Unmasked

**Author's Note:**

> hfzjlsdhfhdlsh i wrote this somewhere between 12 and 1 am and it got disorganized and rambling, can we just pretend that was the intention?

It’s so fucking dark.

 

It was always dark, even when your eyes still worked, the studio was dim. It was darker, of course, when the ink gathered over your eyes, even as you clawed at it. It was dark for what, 10 years? 20? Longer? Properly taught a man to rely on…. Other senses.

Your hearing gets sharper, of course. You expected that. Singing your songs let you know where things were, after a while you stopped banging into stuff altogether. And… you always seemed to know when a Lost One or Searcher was nearby. It need not make its presence known audibly. You can feel the misery rolling off them in sickening waves. For a while, you avoid them. Then you get used to it. Both of these things leave you pleasantly surprised, to the smallest possible degree. Nowadays, it seems like almost everything you feel is the minimized, shrunken, shriveled and useless. Like they’d been pushed aside to make room, to make you a mouthpiece. A prophet.

Except, of course, your devotion to your Lord. That remains.

Until he abandons you. No, he doesn’t abandon you, he lashes out, in true demonic fashion. Barely before you can get a few words out, you’re gone. Imploding. A puddle. A drop of ink in a studio full of the same.

After that, it takes you a long time to reform. When you pull yourself together…. well. The white hot glow of your anger seems like it should be bright enough to see by, but of course you still can’t. Still covered in ink. Right.

You’re huddled into your little corner, boarded off, axe hugged close. You won’t have much of a chance, but you’re confident you WILL have one, and you’re sure as fuck ready to take it. Imagine, a prophet slaying his own Lord. Maybe someday the Lost Ones will mumble their own songs about you. Maybe you’ll be free from that nagging itch at the back of your mind to sing songs about the Ink Demon, to fall at his feet and praise him. 

Isn’t it nice that what was once a throbbing, screaming, shining, FALSE lure of a voice is now reduced to a shy little whisper? Is it nice to be free to be able to think the thoughts that you should have been able to think all that long time alone and blind and afraid?

Your whole body tenses and you feel footsteps. Carefully, so carefully, you move to a crouch, the smell of ink stronger than ever in your ruined nostrils. Special ink. Demon ink. And you feel it, then, pure, white hot rage, to rival your own boiling inky fury. An emotion you’ve only felt once before, right before you were liquidized, sent back to the puddles, cut down so unjustly when you just wanted to do your job. 

Your job…. A voice in the back of your head told you your job had once been outrageously different and probably better. You push it down. Not helpful.

The whole menacing air gets stronger and you almost back down as the footsteps grow louder, the smell stronger, you almost lose your nerve. But you’ve come so far! Did he presume to kill you again? You hadn’t done anything wrong and surely, surely he wouldn’t know what your plan was….

You breathe in and hold it for a few moments, before you go crashing out at the approaching being you’d once worshipped, screeching. When did you lose your mask? You barely hear yourself over the ink rushing in your head, your anger driving you forward, and you’re too far along, it’s too late, before you realize something’s WRONG….

Whoever it is has a friend, it seems. Death is sweet when it sends you crashing over the kill that should have been yours, it doesn’t MATTER who it was. Death is sweet when you finally stop feeling the pain in your head. Death is sweet when the ink that was your body seeps into the floorboards and your existence seeps into nothingness and you just stop, and Sammy Lawrence (yes, that’s who you were! You had a name, you weren’t the nameless prophet after all!) ceases to be.


End file.
